


Aftermath

by Just_Rocket_Science



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Other, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, ar-pharazon sucks, basically it's an AU where Mairon impulsively makes Tar-Miriel a nazgul, bonding over shared trauma (well. less so in this but if i were to write a part two), could also be read as canon compliant if you're fanciful, nazgul!tar-miriel, oneshot/experimental, past implied non con so be wary of that, post fall of numenor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-12 14:35:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29511192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Just_Rocket_Science/pseuds/Just_Rocket_Science
Summary: Mairon wakes up in the aftermath of Numenor. He may or may not be regretting a decision he made concerning the fate of Tar-Miriel.
Relationships: Morgoth Bauglir | Melkor/Sauron | Mairon (past/implied), Sauron | Mairon & Tar-Míriel, Sauron | Mairon/Witch-King of Angmar (one-sided)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15





	Aftermath

**Author's Note:**

> I've always loved the witch-king!tar-miriel au, but I also love Angmar as a character, so I figured I could still have her be made into a Nazgul without replacing him. I felt like writing about Mairon suffering, decided that I could incorporate my au in the background, and this was the result.

Mairon woke up to a dry mouth. He licked his lips, almost gagging at the taste of bile and coppery blood. Water. He needed water. He attempted to roll over, but the moment he twisted his head sideways, dark lights flashed behind his eyes and he whimpered softly, doing his best to concentrate on anything other than the thought of throwing up. At this point he had noticed his headache, too. It throbbed in his skull, screaming profanities at him until he wanted nothing more than to curl in on himself and block out the noise. But he couldn't do that. He needed water. He braced a clenched fist against the infuriatingly springy mattress, right under his chest where his center of mass was, and tested his arm by attempting to push himself up a little. It worked without much pain. Realizing that his arms, at least, were in fine condition, he pushed himself up the rest of the way. The hammering in his skull protested at this, but he bit his already cracked and bloodstained lip, and ignored it. Once he was sitting in a relatively upright position on his knees, he eased his weight off of his arms and onto his lower back. It felt as though someone had driven a corkscrew into his hip bone. His only outward reaction was a quiet hiss and the sudden quickening of his breaths. The rational part of his brain was telling him to ignore the agony, so he dug his long fingernails into his palm hard enough to draw blood, and fixed his eyes on the glass of water placed on his bedside table instead. It was just regular water, but his gaze was fixed on it as though it was gold. He had been through worse pain before. This was nothing. As if in reply, the corkscrew at the base of his spine dug deeper, almost forcing him to bend backwards and flop back down. He could feel his back muscles pulsing in anger against his every move. But the water was still waiting for him, so he stretched out a shuddering arm and grabbed the glass, finally letting himself fall back down onto the bed and spilling some water across his stomach in the process. That was a mistake. At the sudden contact with the mattress his back seemed to take on a new level of fury, clawing at itself like some deranged beast. Mairon let his head flop down onto the pillow and didn't move, the arm in which he was holding the water shaking so hard that, had the cup been any fuller, it would have spilled everywhere. At this point he had bitten his lips so much that the sweet copperiness of blood flooded his mouth in an almost intoxicating way, washing away the remaining taste of bile on his tongue that had made him want to gag. He brought the glass of water to his lips and took a sip, careful not to spill any despite the trembling of his hand. The water tasted like blood too. Or maybe it was just the taste of his own mouth getting absorbed by the liquid; he was in too much pain to tell, or even really care. Either way the water tasted horrible, and he stretched out an arm to place it back down on the table with a thump, concentrating on the motion itself rather than the black flashes behind his eyes or the burning of his back. Avoidance was a strategy that always seemed to work for him. He was a master of tricking people, after all; it only made sense that he'd be able to trick himself into thinking something wasn't there too. So he just closed his eyes and waited until his brain stopped acknowledging the pain, or until it actually went away. He never could really tell which one it was until he made a bad move and his brain decided to switch back on. He eventually fell asleep, and when he opened his eyes again he could roll onto his side and sit up freely, albeit slightly gingerly, out of fear that the pain would return. Even that small mouthful of water must have also helped a little, since his skull had stopped pounding and he felt relatively clear headed. Good. He must have looked quite a sight, with dried blood coating his lips. When he ran his fingers through his hair it was knotted and tangled, which sent a pit of discomfort coiling in his stomach. 'At least you're clean,' he told himself. One of his servants must have bathed him. Perhaps before he would not have minded, but now the thought of anyone's hands on him made him want to throw up. His face paled. 'Don't think about that,' he said internally, and picked up the water again. This time he drank it all in a few swallows, despite the taste, then used his now not so dry and parched tongue to lick the blood from his lips. Thuringwethil had always told him that his blood had tasted sweet. He didn't think so - it just tasted like regular blood to him - but then again he wasn't a vampire. Now that his back and head had stopped screaming, he could concentrate on the dull ache in all his muscles that usually came after overexertion. That was strange; he didn't remember doing anything very strenuous. Maybe it was just the stress. Footsteps interrupted his thoughts. He set the now empty glass of water back down, tilting his head to listen. Two people, walking towards this room, one of them taller and wearing more armor than the other. Their steps were strangely light compared to a regular mortal's; Nazgûl. After hesitating for a moment, Mairon swung his legs out of the bed and let his feet touch the stone floor. It was cold. He grabbed his blanket, wrapping it around his waist with a tight knot, then cautiously stood up. To his relief his back must have genuinely recovered, because he felt no sudden pain. His feet felt icy where they touched the floor, so he walked quickly towards the door, hoping to get this over with as quickly as possible. The two Nazgul he had heard walked in, and they met in the doorway. The Nazgul were Angmar, the one wearing most of the armor, and Tar-Miriel, the one wearing the expression of disdain. Angmar blinked at the sight of his master, and coughed, hurriedly lowering his eyes. Mairon sighed.  
“How long have I been out?”  
“Almost a week, _master_ ,” Tar-Miriel replied, spitting the words out like poison. Her eyes were murderous, glinting in the shadow cast by her hood. Mairon raised an eyebrow.  
“Is there a problem, my lady?” She narrowed her eyes.  
“You took my kingdom from me.”  
“Ah, I see that we’re being direct now. If I remember correctly, it was your cousin that did that, not me. I saved you from eternal death.”  
“Don’t do that.”  
“Do what?”  
“Twist what happened. Manipulate events to your own advantage.” Mairon chuckled, baring his pointed canine teeth in a grin.  
“Arrange a meeting with the rest of the Nazgul and my captains; I wish to speak to them after my absence.” Tar-Miriel opened her mouth to protest, but Mairon fixed his eyes on her ring, and she closed it, clenching her hands. “You will obey me.”  
“Fuck you,” she hissed through gritted teeth. But she had no choice in the matter, and she turned around to do as Mairon said. Mairon and Angmar watched her go.  
“You don’t have to be so cruel to everyone around you, my lord,” Angmar remarked once she was out of sight. “She wanted to come see if you were alright.” Mairon shrugged.  
“Everyone on that island deserved to die, her included.”  
“Then why did you save her.”  
“Because she is more valuable to me alive, as much as she doesn’t deserve it.” He walked back into the room, his steps not too steady, and Angmar followed.  
“Respectfully, my lord, why? She doesn’t know anything we don’t.” Mairon frowned.  
“She knows what it was like,” he muttered under his breath, leaning under his desk to grab a glass bottle filled with blood red liquid.  
“What what was like?” Mairon used his clawed nails to pop off the bottle’s cork, and swallowed a mouthful of wine, tilting his head to process the taste.  
“Numenor.”  
“But so do you, my lord.”  
“I suppose so. But better to have two people than just one. There is always a chance that certain things may have slipped my memory, which would ruin our records’ accuracy. And you know how I feel about accuracy.” Angmar pondered this logic, then nodded his head in agreement.  
“I suppose that that is fair.” Mairon set the wine down onto the wooden table. It clinked pleasantly. “But we didn’t come here to talk about Numenor; how are you?”  
“Surprisingly clean for someone who just crawled out of the ocean.” He raised an eyebrow at Angmar, who’s eyes widened. He ducked his head in an attempt to conceal his crimson complexion.  
“That’s- uh- you’re welcome. I- I meant more as in are you in any pain though.”  
“Just the normal amount.” Shrugging in time to his words, Mairon opened his closet, rifling through the many, many clothes. Over the centuries he had obtained a rather large assortment of them.  
“The normal amount? Wouldn’t that be… none?”  
“Not for me I’m afraid.” He sighed, displeased with what he found in the closet, and closed it again.  
“Oh.”  
“Oh, indeed. How did you get me out of the water?”  
“We got one of the orcs to do it.” Mairon tutted, turning to look at Angmor with an expression of mock disdain.  
“Would you not jump into water for me, Angmar?”  
“No! I mean- yes! But- well, we had the orc at hand, my lord, and I just reasoned-”  
“Relax, I’m toying with you.” He sat down on the bed, legs crossed, evidently having given up on changing into any clothes. “Oh, also, do you know where the papers I left on my desk before I left went?” Angmar sat down next to him.  
“I filled them in- sorry, I should probably have asked y-” Mairon just waved him off.  
“It’s fine. Thank you. Can you send them to me at some point so I can review them?”  
“Are you sure? I mean you just woke up, and even Tar-Miriel was pretty exhausted after we brought her here.”  
“Nonsense. I’m perfectly fine; I was asleep for a week, after all.”  
“You weren’t asleep, you were in a coma,” Angmar pointed out.  
“Same thing. Besides, Tar-Miriel is just a human, and I’m most certainly not. Maiar are far more resilient than any mortal.”  
“They are _not_ the same thing; we have hundreds of medical records to prove it.”  
“Alright, maybe not the same thing, but my point about Maiar still stands.” He leaned back against the pillow as he was speaking, pulling his legs up and resting them on Angmar’s lap, who frowned but didn’t try to push his master away.  
“Fine, I’ll send over the papers.”  
“Good.” Mairon let his head fall backwards gently onto the pillow. His eyes were closed. The last time Angmar had seen him, his hair had been gold, glittering like living flames that dripped from his shoulders. Now it was pale blonde. Something about that was so jarring to Angmar, that he was forced to look away. His master looked faded, almost, like a ghost. He certainly didn’t look perfectly fine.  
“Are you sure you’re alright?” Angmar asked with a soft tilt of his head, his eyes glittering the same color as a murky ocean. “Like, in your mind.” Mairon chuckled.  
“In my mind? Well I don’t have brain damage, if that’s what you mean. Don’t you have somewhere else to be, anyway? I need to dress.” He pushed Angmar away with his foot, and Angmar grudgingly got up, shrugging in discomfort at the weight of his armor.  
“Well, I was about to go on a patrol with Khamul...”  
“Then go.”  
“But-”  
“Lieutenant.” Mairon’s eyes flashed, almost like a warning sign, and Angmar felt the weight of the ring on his finger increase. He bit his lip, backing away, out of the room.  
“Of course, my lord,” he said quietly, his tone dripping with a barely concealed regret. What it actually was that he regretted, Mairon had no idea. He walked out of the door with metallic footsteps, and Mairon watched him. Perhaps it was because there was nothing left to distract himself with, or maybe it was because Angmar looked so painfully similar to the one who haunted Mairon’s dreams, but the Maia felt strangely light headed.  
“Alcohol,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair and ignoring how the strands no longer glowed with fire. “I need more alcohol.”

He should have known better than to fall asleep at night. He never slept for more than a couple hours for a reason. But this time it was worse. It was Ar-Pharazon laughing at him with a hungry gleam in his eyes, it was the crack of the whip and the taste of blood, it was failure after failure after failure, it was all his work crashing down around him while he laughed, beyond the capability to even register what was happening. It was drowning. He was drowning, and there were hands all over him, dragging him down, _touching_ him, and he couldn’t escape them no matter how hard he fought. But the most painful of all were the hands that covered his mouth and wouldn’t let him scream, and the voice that whispered into his ears and promised eternity, even when it knew that such promises would only ever be empty. Mairon opened his eyes. It was that strange hour between night and morning, when everything felt distorted and uncomfortable and _wrong_. He stumbled out of the bed, the world spinning and those hands covering his mouth, not letting him breath, pinning him down until he couldn’t escape, until he could barely move. He collapsed onto the floor, clutching his stomach. He felt sick. Everything about this was so wrong, so invasive, he didn’t want this, he’d thought that he could handle this- the impact with the floor shattered his knees, and he clung onto that pain as a distraction from the pins and needles that crawled over him, from those hands that would never leave him alone, no matter how much he begged.  
“Mairon?” He was tipping over, and the side of his face hit the ground. It was cold, so cold, cold like the bottom of the ocean, cold like the floor of a cell, cold like the void. “Mairon, please-” No, that wasn’t right. He was supposed to be the one begging, not the other person. “Breathe, please, just breathe.” How could he explain that he couldn’t pry those hands from his skin, that even when he tried to breathe all he would inhale would be water. He needed to escape. He needed to escape the hands, the water, the touch. But his legs didn’t work, and he was chained to the ground, chained to his own decisions. He could never escape, could never breathe, could never be free of those hands. They were a part of him, and everytime he closed his eyes he would hear Ar-Pharazon’s laugh and be pulled down into the bottomless ocean, and they would touch him _everywhere_ , and he would try to run but they would grab his ankles and pull him towards them and chain him and make him pretend to enjoy it and- he shuddered. “No- Mairon, please don’t throw up. Come on, just- fuck-” Whose voice was that? A female. Did he know them? He opened his eyes. A figure was sitting next to him; not leaning over him, laughing at him like he’d expected.  
“I was lying,” he croaked, his voice faint, “I never liked it.”  
“Shh, I know,” she said, “Can I touch you?” He nodded. Even that little bit of effort was exhausting. His vision was still blurry, but the room had stopped spinning, and he watched the hazy figure tuck what he assumed was a pillow under his head. It felt nice. Soft.  
“Sorry,” he mumbled, burying his head in the pillow, grateful for the warmth.  
“For what?”  
“I failed him. My master. I promised to get him back and I couldn’t.” He didn’t really listen to what he was saying. Perhaps he was just too tired. He only knew that it was important, and that he meant it.  
“It’s alright. You did enough, I think.”  
“Really?”  
“Yea.”  
“M’kay.” He rolled onto his side. The figure stroked his hair, humming a shanty that she had heard once when she had been younger. Mairon didn’t quite fall asleep again; something in the back of his mind told him that that would be a bad idea. Instead he drifted in and out of consciousness, not awake, but not allowing himself to dream, either. 

When he opened his eyes to light flickering through the curtains, the figure was gone, and Mairon still had dark circles under his eyes. His entire body felt cold, and his back ached from sleeping on such hard ground. His fault for trying to sleep anyway; he should have known better than to think that he was going to get out of Numenor completely unscathed. He should have realised that this was not someone he could handle for long, not like Tyelpe, when he saw the predatory glitter in Ar-Pharazon's eyes. Although, in truth, he _had_ handled Ar-Pharazon. The bastard was now trapped underground and presumably either dead or dying. That, at least, eased some of the frustration in Mairon's mind. He forced himself to hey up off of the stone floor, and put on some kind of clothing at least. In the end he opted for an almost embarrassingly simple black robe, more of a nightgown really. It had neat, gold trimmed edges, and swept down to his ankles. He should probably have taken a bath first, but he didn't think that he could stomach it just yet. Besides, he was an Ainu; they didn’t do something as abhorrent as _smell_. The mere thought of it made Mairon wrinkle his nose in disdain. In the bathroom, as he was grabbing his makeup supplies, he came face to face with his reflection for the first time since he'd regained consciousness. His first thought was: who is that? The figure in the mirror was pale, painfully so. Almost like the color had been drained out of him. His skin was blotched with dark, greenish patches, though thankfully none on his face. His hair was pale blonde and ragged, filled with knots. You could see the veins stretched out under his skin in some places, and his dim eyes were set in a hollow skull. Even the freckles on his seemed pale and dulled down. It was going to take a lot more makeup to fix this mess, beyond the simple concealing of freckles that he usually did. Mairon rested his forehead on the cool mirror with a sigh, his breath forming clouds on its surface.  
"Goddamnit," he muttered, and suddenly there were tears in his eyes, because ever since the first time Lord Melkor had been taken prisoner nothing had ever been right, and Mairon was tired of it, oh so tired. He had been tired for the past five thousand years. "Fuck. Fuck you," he whispered, sinking down onto his knees against the bathroom wall, and he wasn't sure whether he was talking to the world, or Eru, or himself.

"You look better, my lord," Angmar said cautiously, after the meeting. The meeting itself had been nothing special; Mairon had just wanted to make sure that nothing unorthodox had happened while he had been away. Angmar had been shooting him glances all the way through it, Tar-Miriel had not said a word, the orc captains kept fidgeting nervously at seeing their boss again, and the rest of the Nazgûl had just been bored. Overall, it had seemed as though nothing much had changed; except for the addition Tar-Miriel, of course.  
"I know," Mairon said, sorting through scrolls. The touch of parchment had always been comforting to him, something to concentrate on when the chatter of the outside world got too much.  
"You do?"  
"Yes." He had spent an hour in front of the mirror that morning, in an effort to make himself look just as perfect as always. He still appeared to be scarily pale, and his hair was all wrong, but at least he didn't look like a corpse, either. "Do you know where the ration reports for the past week are?"  
"Here." Angmar passed them to him. Mairon sighed, looking at the scribbled mess of paper.  
"Maybe we should build a proper education system for the orcs," he muttered. The fact that whoever had written the report had spelt the word 'meat' as 'meet' did not help with his incoming headache.

Tar-Miriel caught up with him in the corridor later.  
"I get them too, y'know," she said, her expression curious, though Mairon could still see the anger directed at him smouldering in her eyes, just under the surface of a calm demeanor.  
"Get what?" He replied, concentrating on the click of his heels against the stone floor instead of on how much he already regretted making her a Nazgûl.  
"The nightmares."  
"I have no idea what you are talking about." Tar-Miriel stopped, and Mairon instinctively did the same.  
"Well if that wasn't a nightmare you had last night, then maybe we need an exorcist."  
"Hilarious. Humor doesn't suit you, and neither does pretending to know something you don't." He turned to continue walking, but she grabbed his arm, making him flinch.  
"It's him, isn't it? He treated you just as badly as he treated me. And I bet it's the drowning, too. I bet you can't even take a shower without breaking down." Her eyes glowed with an almost sickening glee. Mairon wrenched his arm away.  
"Look, I am sorry if I woke you last night, but you really don't have to rub it in by making shit like this up. Besides, I have actual work to do. Please go away before I have to force you." She frowned.  
“I’m trying to help you.”  
“Well you’re not. Because there is nothing to help me with,” he hissed, and strode away. She didn’t follow.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments/kudos are much appreciated! I suspect they become close friends in the future, though it takes a while. And Angmar never does get the relationship he wants :(


End file.
